


Present/Past

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drinking, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Substance Abuse, They fight a lot, at least at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27561313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Michael and Lucifer have a history. One that they're trying to not let impact the present. Surely they can avoid each other on campus. Surely they can be friendly to each other when they can't. Surely together they can bury their past and leave it forgotten.But the past has a strange way of haunting the present, reliving itself again and again. They can try, but they can't escape it.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Lucifer/Dean Winchester, Lucifer/Michael (Supernatural)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 25





	1. Beginnings I

Lucifer had been on campus for less than two weeks, but that was plenty of time to find the right people who would know the right names, the right numbers, the right shops and the right times that allowed him to stock his dorm room with cheap booze and cheap weed. An added advantage of knowing the right names was that he had a party invitation nearly every night. They were all the same- students celebrating the last gasp of summer before lessons _really_ started and assignments started piling up.

Less than two weeks and he already had a routine locked down. People from his dorm would pile into his room. Joints would be rolled, booze would be drank, and they would stumble across campus in a haze of herby smoke, blinded by the excitement of being young in a place with no parents. He didn’t need to bring any drinks to parties, he discovered quickly. Girls and guys alike would offer drags from joints and pass him drinks without asking, and he’d linger outside where people smoked until someone would kiss him between drags or sips. It always ended the same way, leaving when the party started dying down, not bothering to tell his admirer where he was going, slipping off back to his room with a grin and a heavy head.

That was how this night had started. There had been a collective moan when a joint had unravelled as they smoked it. The brunette with red lipstick from across the hall (he could never remember her name) was on his lap, pursing her cherry-red lips as she blew her drag into Lucifer’s open mouth. He returned the favour, passing her his red solo cup of shit vodka mixed with some cheap cola alternative. She drank it without complaint before leaning against his chest, probably hoping he’d ditch the party with her and stay after the rest had left.

That wasn’t happening tonight. He let her hold his hand, loosely, as they all made the trek to the upperclassmen’s houses, some hooting and hollering as they went. Once they were inside he lost her quickly, letting go of her hand and slipping through the pulsing crowd of people to the back yard.

“Want some?” was the first thing someone said to him, holding out a much better-rolled joint, and he took a drag appreciatively. The guy who held it out let his hand linger a while, brushing Lucifer’s waist with the subtle touches he knew to be a question. He answered the question in the usual way- head tilted, eyes looking from beneath his lashes, lips in something of a pout as he blew out the stream of smoke. The guy, drunk and high as all hell, gave him a loose and sloppy kiss. He kissed him back for a while before pulling away and took another drag.

“How fucked up are you?” he asked him. The guy rolled his eyes and nodded his head in one lazy movement.

“Far up there,” was the answer, playing with the ends of Lucifer’s hair. He gave a comically childish frown as Lucifer extracted himself.

“Come on,” the guy whined as he took one final drag before handing it back. “I’m not _that_ bad. And my boyfriend would be seriously into you, if you’re into that. Or he never has to know, if you’re more traditional.”

Lucifer just smiled. “Have a good night.”

He bounded up the stairs, dodging kissing couples with practised ease. Unluckily for him, the bathroom was occupied.

“Come on,” he moaned, banging on the door. “I’m about to piss myself here.”

A reply came in the groaning of the pipes as the occupant started washing their hands. Lucifer squeezed his eyes shut, pacing in the short hallway until he had to stop, his head swirling more than was comfortable. He rested it against the wall, his back facing the bathroom. “Come _on_ , man, your hands can’t be this dirty!”

The bathroom unlocked – blessed relief – and he heard the door swing open.

“Not especially dirty no, but soap and time is required to actually _clean_ them.”

His eyes shot open, staring into the blank wall. All feelings of giddiness and haziness vanished. He felt his heart sink to his stomach as he turned around, hoping that he’d imagined it – that someone else in the world had _that_ voice.

No such luck. Michael Shurley’s eyes widened with a horror that mirrored his own.

“Lucifer?” he said in amazement. His hands curled into fists by instinct. His heart fluttered uncomfortably against his ribs. “What are _you_ doing here?”

The curiosity and wonder in his voice cut Lucifer like a knife. Bladder needs forgotten, he shot towards the stairs, pushing past the couples instead of weaving around them, ignoring the questions of his new friends and strangers as he ran out the front door, feet pounding on the street until he reached campus. There he stopped, breath short and legs tired. It had been a short run, yes, but he hadn’t exactly used his free time to exercise much.

There was no way. No way on earth that with all his careful deliberation over colleges he had managed to land himself in the same one as _Michael fucking Shurley._

He closed his eyes as running footsteps faded into his earshot, turning away from it, head banging from the liquor and weed. It could just be a friend, he told himself as he stood with his hands on his knees, panting. Just a friend. Or a concerned stranger. The guy from the back yard. The brunette from across the hall. It didn’t have to be who he didn’t want it to be.

“What’s with the running?” Michael called, voice annoyingly even, and Lucifer muttered several profanities under his breath.

“You’re not…” Lucifer trailed off, still breathing heavily. _You’re not supposed to be here_ might be a little dramatic, even for him. He stood up straight with considerable effort, trying to feel a little more sober and ignore the pressing pain in his stomach. He should have just run _into_ the bathroom. At least that had a lock.

“I asked everyone where you went,” he said, facing Michael and trying to make his voice as even as possible. “ _Everyone_. Teachers, your old friends… you didn’t even tell your own dad where you went.”

“I’ll give you three guesses as to why that is,” Michael said coldly. Lucifer looked away, anger gripping at his face.

“I wouldn’t have come, if I’d known.” He looked back at Michael. It was difficult to make out his face in the dark, but from his stance he could guess. His arms were folded, his back straight, completely still. Lucifer had seen the look of silent, stony fury too many times to count. “I would have accepted another offer. Or just not applied.”

“You asked my _father_ where I am?”

“Keep up,” Lucifer sneered, gripping onto the nearest tree to try and stop his head from spinning. Michael’s arms unfolded, and he took a step towards him.

“He’s going to think that I’m… why would you ask _him_?”

“He’s going to think that you’re what?” Lucifer asked in annoyance, now hugging the tree in an effort to keep himself upright. “Go on, Michael, he’s going to think what?”

“Christ.”

Lucifer looked up in surprise. Not a lot could prompt Michael to break a commandment. He didn’t understand what it could be until he felt his knees touch the mud beneath him, and he realised he wasn’t as upright as he thought.

“Fuck off,” he mumbled as Michael tugged him up by his elbows, slipping a hand around his waist. “Just leave me here. I’m fine.”

“You’re slurring your words. And I don’t want to deal with you after you wake up covered in piss and dirt. Come on, put your arm around my shoulders. You’re a freshman, right? I didn’t live in the freshmen dorms but I know where they are.”

He complied, somewhat unwillingly, and whimpered as Michael started walking. The walk back always felt longer than the walk there.

“Christ,” Michael said again as he put one stumbling foot in front of the other. “Do you always get this fucked up at parties?”

“I think it’s the running,” he said, and scowled as Michael chuckled.

“Having fun, then, I see.”

“Are you?” he asked, and then because he couldn’t resist it, pulled his head upright and gave a leering, sneering look. “Having fun? Got a boyfriend?” It came out cold and mocking. Michael didn’t seem too bothered.

“Yes, actually,” was his calm reply, and Lucifer scoffed.

“Typical.”

They didn’t say anything for a while, Michael steering him around campus with a firm arm around his waist. Lucifer’s mouth was tightly closed. There was no point in trying to provoke him further. Not when he could just dump Lucifer down and leave him there.

Once Michael had managed to get his room number out of him, he stayed to help despite Lucifer’s insistence on being fine and not needing it. He cleared away cups and emptied the ashtrays while Lucifer finally used the bathroom. He covered his eyes politely while Lucifer changed. He even stood _folding_ the clothes that had been dropped on the floor, placing them in the washing basket. He left once Lucifer had clamboured into bed. Permanently, Lucifer thought, until he came back with two large glasses of water.

“Drink some now,” he said as he passed one to him. “And you’ll want this one in the morning. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

Lucifer took a long, greedy gulp from the glass. He eyed Michael suspiciously after setting it down. “Why are you being so- so _nice_?” he asked. “I thought you hated me.”

“I do,” Michael said lightly. “But you’re drunk. And high. And a freshman, and as an RA-”

Lucifer groaned loudly. “Oh, god, you’re an RA? Michael, please tell me you’re kidding.”

Michael grinned at him. “I’m kidding. But you _are_ drunk and high. And in no state to argue. We’ve got a full three years to argue, anyway. I’m in no rush.”

Lucifer’s head dropped back on his pillow, dread curling in his stomach. “Mike,” he said, voice thick with nausea – from the vodka or the thought of arguing with Michael for three years, he wasn’t sure. Probably both. “Tell me you’re kidding again. I don’t want to argue with you.”

He heard a short little sigh, and then Michael turned back around, a blanket in his hands. “This campus is big enough for the two of us,” he said smoothly as he draped it over Lucifer. “We can actually avoid each other here.”

Lucifer hiccupped. “You know there are more students here than in our whole town?”

Michael smiled down at him. “Yeah. Exactly. Like I said. We can avoid each other here. There’s no need for us to argue.”

Lucifer smiled back. Michael stood there for a few moments before the smile faded, and he stepped away. “Sleep well, Luce. And don’t forget to drink the water.”

Lucifer made a noncommittal noise, rolling over and hugging the blanket to him once Michael had switched the light off and closed the door with a resounding click of the lock. His footsteps faded away down the hallway as Lucifer drifted into an uneasy sleep.


	2. Beginnings II

_Seven Years Earlier_

Lucifer was aware his eyes were wide enough that he must look quite foolish, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t help it. The school was _massive_.

“That way is to the chapel,” said the older student flatly, waving his hand towards a cobbled path. “You’ll have mass there once a week with the rest of your religious studies class.”

Lucifer peered over at it. It was a small stone chapel, and he’d never seen leaves as green as the ones on the surrounding trees. His heart hammered nervously.

“You’re allowed on the grounds during lunch and breaks. Don’t even think about going there during lessons. And if you do, don’t be stupid and pass by Father Malley’s window. The last kid stupid enough to do that got suspended.” He looked back at Lucifer. “I think he was a scholarship student too.”

Lucifer made a small noise, pulling his bag closer to him. Everything the older boy had said on the tour of the school had frightened him a little, yes, but more than anything, it excited him. His aunt had burst into tears of joy when Lucifer had managed to win the full scholarship to the local Catholic private school, Saint Anthony’s. She’d bought him custard donuts and a small medal of Saint Anthony, which he was now regretting wearing, seeing as “no jewelry” had been included in the older boy’s long list of what was strictly forbidden. Luckily for him there was an equally strict uniform, and so it could stay safely hidden.

“Now you wait here,” the older boy said, pointing to a door. “You’ve got a mentor coming once the bell rings. He’s the scholarship kid from the grade above you.”

“Alright,” Lucifer said, leaning by the door. He watched the older boy as he went inside, hoping he’d turn around and offer to find him at lunch or something. Scholarship kids were a bit fucked over in that regard. School had started a week before, but the scholarship recipient was only announced on the first day of term – everyone was sure to have friends already.

No such luck. The boy left without another word, and Lucifer rested his head on the wall behind him with a loud sigh. His eyes darted around for a moment, checking if there were any frowning priests watching from a window. None that he could see. His hands rested on his bag, playing with the straps as he waited. The boy hadn’t said anything _specifically_ about smoking… probably not worth the risk, anyhow.

He heard a loud, muffled bell, and students began pouring out the door, shouting and laughing and jeering. He pressed himself against the wall to let them pass. None of them seemed to give him a second glance, or even notice him. _It’s not the uniform_ , he told himself as he chewed down on his tongue anxiously. He’d had recurring nightmares even before he’d _applied_ for the scholarship – nightmares of his aunt having to knit him his school jumper, of shoes with holes in them, ties the wrong color, threadbare blazers. The scholarship covered his uniform costs, luckily, and so his uniform was perfect and neat.

One boy stood on his foot heavily as he passed, not looking back as Lucifer hissed in pain. The last boy out bumped his shoulder lightly, and he snapped.

“Can you not watch where you’re going?” he spat.

A few of the boys turned around in shock, mouths open, eyes darting to the other boy.

“I wouldn’t speak like that if I was that short,” one scoffed. The boy he’d spoken too didn’t react, staring at him calmly.

“Go on. Don’t be late,” the other boy said eventually to his friends, who dispersed after sending some glares to Lucifer.

Lucifer stood his ground as the boy took a few steps towards him, eyes still and calm.

“They’re right,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t be talking to people like that. Especially people you clearly couldn’t beat in a fight.”

“I could beat you in three seconds flat,” Lucifer snarled. The other boy didn’t look impressed. He just raised an eyebrow before turning around.

“Sure you could,” he called over his shoulder.

He wasn’t sure what exactly ran through his head next. Whatever it was, he soon found himself running at the other boy, pushing his back hard. The other boy stumbled for a few steps, and then swung around, bringing his fist with him. It landed in Lucifer’s stomach like a rock, and he bent double, groaning. The other boy just stood, watching him again.

“Anything else to get out of your system?”

He sounded tired. Lucifer didn’t care. He balled his hand into a fist and sent it up into his face. The boy blocked it with ease before giving him a firm and resounding push. He fell hard on the grass, skidding for a few inches, the air knocked out of his lungs.

“Whose homeroom are you in?” the boy asked, his voice still calm. “And what’s your name?”

He tried to regain his breath. “I’m not sure,” he managed. “And it’s Lucifer.”

The boy froze, his eyes widened slightly. He extended his hand to help him up, which Lucifer gratefully accepted.

“Well, Lucifer, I’m Michael. Your mentor. Great first impression, by the way.”

Now Lucifer was the one who froze. He’d just tried to punch his mentor. More to the point, his mentor had punched _him._

“You too,” he said in a small voice, sounding more than slightly winded still. Michael didn’t look up – he was busy rifling through his bag, the same neat satchel bag Lucifer had. It was the one the uniform store recommended. Michael’s looked nicer though, the brown leather soft from use.

He pulled out a clear plastic wallet and handed it to Lucifer. The paper inside was crisp and unfolded.

“Your timetable, teachers, a map of the school, a history of the school, and a form your parents will need to fill out.”

“Is guardian alright instead of parents?” Lucifer asked. Michael’s face remained impassive.

“That’s fine. You have Father Malley after lunch. If I were you I’d clean your shoes. They’re filthy.” With that he turned on his heel and walked away. Lucifer watched him, wide-eyed again, before running a few steps to catch up.

“And what is there to do in lunch?” he asked nervously. It had been silly to hope that the guy who gave him the tour would want some gawky eleven-year-old sitting with him at lunch. Michael was only a year older, but it was probably even sillier to hope that he’d ask him.

Michael sighed and stopped. “There are a few lunchtime clubs. It’s a Wednesday, so… the tennis club, I think, and the math club. Board game club. A group that _says_ they’re a club but just sit in the music rooms. You can try and find some other sixth graders, I guess.”

Lucifer swallowed. “Can I sit with you until I know some people in my grade?”

Michael pursed his lips. “I’m in the math club. It’s only open to ninth graders and up, except for me, so no.” He checked his watch pointedly. “Anyway. If you want some advice, keep your head down. Work hard. Don’t get caught doing something stupid. And _don’t_ –” he pointed his finger in Lucifer’s face. “Get into any more stupid fights, alright? It makes the rest of the scholarship kids look bad. Alright?”

Lucifer nodded, eyes on the finger.

“Good. Now you’re a few minutes late to your lesson, but that should be fine – they know it’s your first day.” He took the plastic wallet from Lucifer and pulled out the timetable in one swift motion. “Ah. Mr Thomas for biology. He’s fine. The classroom’s on the first floor in the science building – do you know where that is?”

Lucifer nodded again, and Michael nodded back, handing him the wallet again.

“Good. Remember to clean your shoes during lunch.”

“Have fun in math club,” Lucifer called sarcastically to his retreating back. Michael didn’t react. He wondered, briefly, if that was the last time they’d ever see each other (by God he hoped so) before turning and heading to the science building.


	3. Hushed

His head was still reeling from the night before. This had been the case nearly every morning this month, though, so there wasn’t much excuse to let it hinder the plans he’d made yesterday.

Lucifer had never needed academic help. Not really. He’d had to work hard, yes, but most of what he did before now had came easy to him. It was incredible, really, how far a few hangovers had set him back. Three months into classes and he’d managed to keep his work above a B grade – barely.

He crawled out of bed with a groan, pressing his hand to his hot forehead, and drained the glass of water he’d set out the night before. That was one good tip Michael had given him. After a quick shower and a teeth-brushing that didn’t quite take the taste of stale smoke and alcohol away, he downed a few painkillers and set off for the library.

“Alright Luce?” someone he didn’t recognise said cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed. He gave a small smile in response, squinting through the pain in his head. Someone grabbed his shoulder as he opened the door. Balthazar, the kid from a few doors down who had eagerly taken up the role of being a rebound once the pretty brunette from across the hall had gotten the message that Lucifer wasn’t interested. His mouth was still stained with wine, neck littered with hickeys.

“John’s room, ten tonight,” he said, and it took Lucifer a few seconds to understand what he was talking about. “There’s a party in one of the frat houses. See you there.” He turned away, making his way back to his bedroom probably, to sleep off the hangover.

“Maybe,” Lucifer called after him. He’d only turned down a few invitations. Nearly all of them he’d done half-heartedly and turned up anyway, to a cheer from his friends.

If they even counted as friends, that was. He wasn’t sure.

The library was unbearably hushed and still. He found an empty desk, pulled out some work, and then rested his throbbing head on his arms.

It didn’t take long to drift into an uneasy and light sleep. He wasn’t entirely asleep – he could feel his cheek getting damp with breath, and hear the sounds of a ticking clock and quiet talking.

“Lucifer?”

Another hushed voice. It wasn’t as though many of his new maybe-friends frequented the library, but he still tensed, feeling too tired and too _done_ to field another invitation.

He lifted his head with considerable effort, and nearly groaned again when he saw who was calling him. “Mike-” he stopped, cheeks heating at the familiar name he used. He coughed to make it seem like an accident and tried again. “Michael. Hey.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, looking slightly amused. “Heavy night?”

“You could say that.” He pulled his work closer, blinking his eyes a few times to try and get rid of the clouds covering his eyes. Michael was still hovering at the edge of his vision.

“Is this the first time you’ve been here?”

Lucifer scoffed. “Hardly,” he said, which was true, but may as well have not have been. He’d passed _through_ the library, sure, and sat down a few times while one of his friends got ready to leave. Michael didn’t need to know that, though.

“I’ve just never seen you here before.”

Now Lucifer was the one to raise an eyebrow. He turned to find Michael had sat down beside him, watching him with his chin resting on his hand.

“I’m guessing you’re in here a lot,” Lucifer said. It came out meaner than intended. Michael didn’t seem to mind.

“Quite a lot, yes.” Michael smiled, a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The strife of a scholarship student never seems to end.”

It took a while for him to process exactly what Michael meant. Once he had, he gave a tired chuckle that made his head start throbbing even harder. “No way. You’re scholarship here, too? Shame they didn’t make the effort to introduce us here.”

Michael’s face brightened. “Well. We seemed to find each other anyway. Here if you’re a full scholarship student, they bring you into a disciplinary meeting if you get below A too often for their liking.”

“I know.” He rubbed his temples in a circular motion, closing his eyes. “That’s why I’m here.”

His work was pulled away from his desk, and he heard Michael hum in the same way he always did when he was thinking – one note, sustained, as he turned things over in his mind. “Ahh. Calculus 202. I did this class last year.”

“Can I use your notes?” Lucifer asked, opening his eyes in time to see Michael’s smirk.

“No way.” He passed the paper back. “I can help you. Though I thought you would have left the library by now, now that you’ve seen me. I know you’ve been avoiding me.”

Lucifer blinked, pretending not to understand. A few weeks back he’d been shocked to see Michael standing outside where people smoked at some party, talking to the same guy that had asked Lucifer to sleep with him and his boyfriend the night he’d first ran into Michael. He thought he had managed to sneak away back to his dorms without being seen.

“ _Oh_. That party?” He ran his hand through his hair nonchalantly. “You’re not why I left.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

He had to bite his tongue to stop a snarky reply, pulling his work closer and pretending he had the ability to concentrate. Michael didn’t leave, though, and so he looked back, annoyed. “Don’t you have work to do?”

He got a shrug in reply. “Not really.”

Lucifer set his pen down pointedly, folding his arms. His head was hurting a little less now, at least. The painkillers were finally kicking in. “Then _why_ are you here?”

Michael pointed. “Helping him.”

Lucifer followed his finger. His blood ran cold when he saw who he meant. The same guy – the one who he’d seen Michael talking to at the party. The one who’d offered to sleep with Lucifer without his boyfriend knowing. He looked back at Michael, more than slightly horrified.

“That _is_ my boyfriend, yes,” Michael said stiffly, seeing the look on Lucifer’s face. “He’s also quite hungover today too. You two have something in common there.”

He struggled to get the words out. His _boyfriend_. Was it Lucifer’s _duty_ to tell him? Was it his duty to not…?

“I’m not hungover,” he said weakly instead. Sure enough, Michael didn’t look convinced.

“Sure. Take some advice, though – they’re about as lenient on scholarship kids as Father Malley was.” Michael stood up, placing a hand on his shoulder and bending to speak into his ear. Lucifer could smell him, the clean smells of soap and shampoo, the dark, almost cinnamon-like smell of his cologne. “If you get caught, you’ll get thrown under the bus. You’ll lose your scholarship, Luce – you’ll lose everything. And even if you don’t, there’s only so much fun you can have before it starts reflecting on your work.”

He straightened up and squeezed his shoulder. It did nothing to alleviate the worry that had settled in his stomach. “Let me know if you need help with calc.”

Lucifer watched him go back over to his boyfriend, who gave him a kiss on the cheek as Michael sat down. Michael’s eyes drifted back over to Lucifer, who looked away quickly, cheeks burning. He stuffed his work back into his back and left, walking far too quickly to look casual.

There was no point sitting there pretending to do work. He could go back to his dorm, go to sleep, and do the work later. Turn down the offers from his friends. Maybe come back to the library in the evening, get it finished tonight. Michael wasn’t going to stay there the whole day, surely. His boyfriend certainly wasn’t.

He looked back one last time as he came to the door, and froze when he locked eyes with Michael, who was sat watching him calmly. Michael lifted his hand to wave, and his boyfriend started looking up. Lucifer nearly ran out, heart pounding, catching some looks as he marched with red cheeks back to his dorm.


	4. Daydreaming

_Three Years Earlier_

Between a shedload of class quizzes, homework, and assignments, Lucifer didn’t get much time for daydreaming. There were the few odd moments while he was sat at his desk, sure, but during lessons he had to concentrate on what was being said, and he had a limited time to sleep. Mass, especially at the school’s chapel, was the only time he really had to switch his brain off, stare at something, and zone out.

For the first four years at Saint Anthony’s school, he had fixated on some stained-glass window, or one of the small crucifixes dotting the walls, or the dancing flame of one of the candles. This year, however, the class whose religion classes coincided with his – and therefore whose chapel times coincided too – included Michael. And due to the alphabetical order they sat in, providing no one was absent, Michael was normally sat directly in front of him.

It was easy to daydream while staring at the back of Michael’s neck. Lucifer told himself that it meant nothing. That Michael just had nice hair and a perfect uniform – of _course_ his neck was nice to look at. It didn’t explain the fluttering in his stomach whenever he’d turn around in the sign of peace, or when Michael would catch him staring during communion. Once Michael had let him in front of him in the line for communion with a knowing look and small smile. He would turn that memory over and over in his mind, wondering if there was a look or some small word he could have said, instead of just stumbling forward with a mumbled thanks as he had.

It didn’t help, really, that they were known for having a rivalry. Lucifer knew Michael hated that people enjoyed watching them fight. That just made him want to do it more. Once a week, normally more, people would put bets down on who would win. The winner would take half. Michael would always refuse it if he won. He knew he got into fights outside of school though, as he sometimes sported a black eye or particularly nasty bruise that Lucifer hadn’t given him, so he figured refusing the money was probably tied up in his issues with being a scholarship student. No one had seemed to care in their first few years there. Now though, his classmates would sometimes make a sly dig about his too-worn school bag or too-cheap pens. Michael seemed to be friends with a nerdier crowd who he doubted would do the same, though, so he couldn’t be sure if he got the same ribbing Lucifer did.

He was the only one – as far as he could tell – that could get under Michael’s skin. Others tried, once the fights became a fairly regular thing. They’d insult his intelligence, or the crowd he hung around with, or his looks (these were some of the weakest attempts, Lucifer had noticed), or the fact he didn’t have a girlfriend (this he couldn’t understand). But no matter what people said, Michael’s face would remain impassive, smooth as still water. Unless it was Lucifer speaking.

He did wonder about that. He wondered about himself, too. Maybe he – _and_ Michael – were just too busy for girlfriends. Finding one while in an all-boys school was difficult enough as it was without the added workload they were both under.

But he would catch himself staring at Michael’s hands, or the side-profile of his face if a few people were absent, and he’d catch his mind drifting to where it probably shouldn’t considering Michael was a stuck-up upperclassman. He’d managed to field the majority of inquisitiveness into his sexuality by citing too much work (for his nerdier classmates) or not wanting to settle (for his less nerdy classmates). He wondered whether he liked Michael. He wondered what Michael would say if he knew. He wondered what would happen if _everyone_ knew. There were only a handful of openly out kids in the school, and they tended to stick together. From what he’d seen, Michael was unfailingly kind to them. He wouldn’t stick up for them when people would start gossiping, but he wouldn’t join in with them either (as Lucifer had, once or twice. Both times Michael’s eyes had flicked up to meet his, holding his gaze with a still, quiet defiance. Lucifer tried not to read too much into it).

Still. More people would egg Michael on if that was floating around out there.

He was nudged sharply by the boy next to him, and scrambled up to join the communion line. Michael’s head turned slightly, and Lucifer could see the corner of his mouth curled up in amusement.

He didn’t particularly care if it was bad to zone out at mass. He had to go twice a week – as did Michael, given the unfortunate fact that, on top of being expected to produce consistently high grades, scholarship students were expected to attend the local parish church ran by Father Malley’s order. The scholarship kid in the twelfth grade had been friendly with Michael but had since been expelled. Lucifer didn’t know the one in the ninth grade too well. His aunt had attended with him for a while before stopping once she got sick. Michael had started sitting next to him after she stopped coming.

None of their classmates attended church at the same time (the earliest mass on Sundays, to get it over with, as Michael had said). He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the difference between Michael in school and the Michael he saw on Sundays, who Michael was careful and polite. And he was careful and polite too, to an extent. Michael made sure to wish his aunt well each week as they walked home together. Lucifer was always sure not to mention Michael’s dad, who Michael didn’t seem to like talking about. And he was sure not to squeeze Michael’s hand too hard during the sign of peace (the same couldn’t be said for mass in the school chapel), or flinch away when Michael’s elbow would brush his as they knelt. And it was nice to see his face from the side, bathed in Sunday morning light instead of obscured in the shadowy chapel, eyelashes aflame and hair alight, face serene as an angel’s as he listened calmly to the priest.

He stormed out of the chapel as soon as the mass had ended, not waiting to hang around and see if he could catch another glimpse of Michael. He was thinking about him too much.

It was a Wednesday lunchtime, which meant that three gossipy priest’s shared office would be empty as they went to get lunch together. Which meant that Lucifer could go and smoke outside their office, shielded by the corner of the building, unseen. He leant against the wall, the stone digging into his shoulder lightly as he lit up, blowing the first plume out thoughtfully.

“Bad habit,” a familiar, quiet voice said. He didn’t need to look to see who it was, but he did anyway. The sky was overcast with heavy grey clouds. In the clean, filtered light, Michael’s cheekbones and jaw looked as though they’d been sculpted from marble.

“So?” Lucifer took another drag and blew it over Michael’s head. “It’s not like you’re just finding out.”

Michael leaned against the wall too, on one shoulder, turned to face him. He looked slightly amused.

“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t usually see you smoke in school. Just Sundays, normally.”

Lucifer made a small _hmph_ sound, tapping the ash off carefully. “You don’t normally see me at lunchtime.” A few weeks ago, sitting next to each other in church, Michael had noticed the part of his middle finger that was stained yellow from cigarettes. He’d stretched out his fingers – long, pale fingers, ones that Lucifer had so often seen curled into a fist, flying towards him – and had touched it gently, carefully, secretly.

“Maybe I’ll just tell Father Malley,” Michael mused. “You’ll be in detention for a month.” He looked at Lucifer with glittering, amused eyes. “No more fighting for a while.”

Lucifer snapped back into the present, away from Michael’s careful fingers brushing his own in a shadowy Sunday mass. “Go ahead,” he said, hoping Michael wouldn’t notice his hammering heartbeat. “I’ll just tell your dad that you’re gay.”

He wasn’t quite sure why he said it. He knew why it was on his mind, obviously, but he regretted it the second it left his mouth.

Michael had frozen next to him, the small smile he’d been wearing vanished. “What – why would you…” His eyes were wide, mouth trembling with some emotion. Lucifer couldn’t tell if it was anger or fear. “How – you think I’m _gay_?”

“It was a joke,” he said smoothly, making sure to blow his smoke decidedly away from Michael. “Just a joke. I wouldn’t actually do that, Mike. Obviously.”

Michael set off walking, and Lucifer turned the cigarette around between his fingers nervously, wondering if he should follow. He’d never seen him so agitated.

He turned around soon enough, face like thunder as he marched back and pointed a finger in his face, bunching his shirt in his fist and tugging him close. “If I ever… _ever_ see you talking to my dad,” and his mouth was twisted in anger, hands shaking, and Lucifer wondered why he wouldn’t just hit him, shove him, grab his cigarette and throw it down his shirt so it burned him, _anything_ except this coming threat in a voice filled with pain.

He watched Michael’s face fall before the threat could even be formed. His hand fell too, grabbing a fistful of his blazer lapel as his head dropped. Lucifer swallowed, slowly moving his cigarette away so Michael wouldn’t be breathing in the smoke. He was close enough to see where Michael’s brush had ran through his hair this morning, the dark strands soft enough to retain the dents. He could see how it began to curl at the ends a little, and some small, pained part of him wished he could see it before it got cut, when it was long enough to curl a little more.

He could hear the shuddering breaths coming from Michael. After a few seconds he put a hand – his free hand – lightly on his shoulder.

“I won’t, Michael,” he whispered, eyes flickering around to make sure no one was watching. No one was.

Michael didn’t reply. Lucifer counted the time with his heartbeats. After twelve, Michael released him and turned in one fluid movement, walking away quickly without showing his face. Lucifer watched him for a few moments, letting him get ahead, before stubbing out his cigarette on the stone and leaving before the priests came back to their office. By the time he’d binned the filter and made his way to the canteen, Michael was nowhere to be seen.


	5. Tomorrow

_Eighteen Months Earlier_

Lucifer was staring at the chapel doors with determination. Determined not to be seen paying any attention at all to Michael, who was stood just in his line of vision. He was staring too, eyes fixed on the sky, face calm as ever. They were the only ones waiting outside the chapel, the rest of their classes all apparently dawdling. Michael had arrived a minute later than him, and had slowly, step-by-step, moved closer to him.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Lucifer looked at him in surprise. He was holding onto his watch tightly.

“Lucifer. We did it again.” Michael looked at him with his mouth mashed in a line. “Chapel’s _tomorrow_. Not today.”

Lucifer groaned. This had happened once before, a few months earlier. They’d walked to their separate classes in silent humiliation once they’d realised their mistakes. “Back to class, then. Come on.”

Michael held up a hand to stop him from turning back. He put a finger to his lips in a silent shush and opened the chapel door with the other, slipping inside and beckoning for Lucifer to follow him. He did, stepping into the heavy silence, the dim chapel with frankincense lingering in the air.

He followed Michael to a deserted bench, and knelt down beside him. Michael dropped his head in prayer, hands piously pointing upwards. Lucifer stared at him, wondering whether this was actually happening. After a few minutes, realising it _must_ be real, he joined his own hands together too, looking up to the altar, though his mind was a million miles away. Or less than an inch away, actually, kneeling next to him.

He followed Michael in sitting back on the pew, taking water out his bag and gulping hungrily. Michael held his hand out, and Lucifer passed it to him. Michael tipped his head up, taking several long sips, before wiping it carefully with a tissue and passing it back. With his throat exposed Lucifer had seen three purple marks on his neck. Something in his stomach quivered. He wanted to reach out and touch it.

“Why can’t it always be like this?” Michael asked. Lucifer looked back up at him, into his clear eyes.

“You want to come to chapel every day?”

A smile touched his face. “No,” he said lowly. He gestured around at the empty room. “No one’s here. You’re nice to me here. If people _were_ here…”

Lucifer saw what he was saying. “We don’t even fight that much anymore.”

Michael looked away. They fought every few weeks, true, but that was nothing compared to when they’d been fourteen and fifteen, when Lucifer would formulate something to shout at Michael every few days.

“Why do you still fight with me then?” Lucifer asked softly. He poked Michael’s thigh lightly. “Would you fight me now?”

“No,” Michael murmured, still not looking. “You fight better in front of an audience. And you seem to like it when you win.”

He looked back at Lucifer, whose breath hitched in his throat as their eyes met. Maybe it was the dim light, but the rings around his eyes looked dark and heavy – like the skin would be tender to the touch.

He reached out, fingers light and careful on the skin. Michael’s eyes fluttered closed and he felt his breath, warm and steady on the inside of his wrist.

“Michael,” he whispered, curling his finger and running it along his cheekbone lightly. Michael opened his eyes, looking up at him. If Lucifer didn’t know better he would think he looked scared. “I prefer it when you win.”

Michael’s eyebrows knitted together, and he squeezed his eyes shut as though it pained him to hear. Lucifer’s heart was in his throat. If there was ever an opportunity, anywhere it would be safe, it was here, watched only by the stone and glass eyes of saints and angels.

He leaned forward and pressed their lips together lightly, and then hovered there, the backs of his fingers still resting gently on Michael’s cheek. Michael didn’t move for a few seconds, and Lucifer froze, fearing a shove or a smack to the ground.

Then Michael’s hand was on his chest, pulling at his shirt and jumper, kissing him back softly. Dazed, Lucifer’s free hand reached up to his hair, running it through his fingers like he’d always wanted to do.

It felt like too soon, even for him, to pull back. But he did, looking at Michael in the dim light, all shadows and angles except for his lips and his eyes and the curve of his throat. He had been sure the marks on his necks would have been hickeys. As he moved closer, he saw they looked too long, too even. Unless someone had placed their mouth relaxed but slightly open to his neck. He did that now, three small kisses over the marks, and it was so painful, so lovely, to have the chance to kiss Michael where someone else had. Michael’s eyes shut again, and Lucifer didn’t protest when his head came to rest on Lucifer’s chest. He wrapped his arms around him lightly and pressed his lips into his hair, cupping the side of his skull.

Even in the quiet chapel, with no living thing’s eyes upon them, he still felt the twist of worry that they’d be caught.

But it couldn’t be all bad, he thought, stroking Michael’s hair with a heavy hand. Michael wouldn’t pin the blame on him. And Michael wouldn’t be provoked, either. He would be an outcast with the calm-eyed boy when the only alternative would be hurting him.

They stayed there, Michael’s head resting on his chest, his hand firm and solid on his dark hair, until the bell rang. Michael passed him his backpack. He passed Michael his discarded blazer. It wasn’t long after they left the chapel, blinking in the sun, that Michael touched his elbow lightly.

“I’ll see you later,” he mumbled before hurrying away in the direction of the library. Lucifer gave a short wave to his back, still a little dazed. _Had_ that actually happened? Had he really kissed Michael in the school chapel – and had Michael kissed him back?

He had new elements to daydream about now, replaying it over and over in his mind as he zoned out in philosophy. How soft Michael’s hair had felt when he ran his fingers through it. How welcome the weight of his head had been, resting on his chest as they’d sat for more than half an hour in silence.

The next day in the chapel, Michael turned immediately during the sign of peace and pressed a small note as they shook hands. Lucifer slipped it into his pocket before shaking someone else’s, pulse racing.

He didn’t get a chance to read it until mass was over, when he was stood outside the offices smoking. In Michael’s small, cramped handwriting, he’d written the address of a gas station, a time (6pm that day), and a question mark. Lucifer looked up and saw him watching from a distance. He held up a thumb, and Michael gave him a thumbs-up back before turning away.

Lucifer’s mouth was dry for the rest of the day. They’d fought at that gas station three times over the past few years. He was almost certain that wasn’t why Michael was asking him there – but still. He couldn’t help but be nervous as he cooked dinner for himself and his aunt later that day, dishing it up in her favourite bowl and putting his in the microwave for later.

Michael was already there when he arrived, and gestured for Lucifer to follow him behind the store, where less eyes could see them. It was sunset. Golden hour. As he drew closer to where Michael stood, leaning against the back of the store, he felt a little faint watching the way Michael’s eyes looked bathed in golden light.

Michael waited until he, too, was leaning against the back of the store before speaking.

“Please don’t tell anyone about yesterday,” he whispered. Lucifer’s eyes widened in surprise. Did Michael think he’d run around telling everyone? Did he think he would be so casual about admitting that about himself?

Unless, of course, he thought there was a chance Lucifer kissed him (and held him, in the chapel’s stony silence) as a ploy. The thought hadn’t crossed his own mind, about whether Michael would do the same.

“Oh my God,” Michael murmured, and Lucifer snapped his attention back to him, realising what his silence must have said. “Oh, Lucifer, please tell me you haven’t-”

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “I would never.”

Michael’s shoulders relaxed, and he gave a long, solemn nod. “Thank you,” he said softly, before looking away. “I need to go, anyway. My dad will be waiting. I’ll see you around.”

“Wait,” Lucifer said quickly. He hadn’t considered what would happen after the kiss. Hadn’t thought about what he’d do if that was all he had – going from daydreaming about the small glimpses he could steal of Michael to a kiss, a real, solid kiss – if that was all he had, just one kiss, if that was all he was _allowed-_

Michael was watching him carefully. He met his eyes, taking a step towards him.

“Mike, I…” he trailed off.

“I won’t tell anyone either,” Michael said, and he shook his head. He hadn’t been worried about that.

“It’s not that. I’m still…” how could he say it? How could he ask Michael to kiss him again when he wasn’t sure whether Michael regretted it or not?

He took another step, and his heart sank as Michael held up his hands and took a step back.

“Not here,” Michael whispered, though no one was around. “Not right now. I’ll come and find you tomorrow. Then.”

Lucifer nodded, butterflies fluttering in his stomach as Michael brushed the back of his hand with a slow, light finger.

“This light suits you,” Lucifer whispered, which was as close to voicing his thoughts as he could get: that Michael was beautiful, in a way that stirred him, in a way that _scared_ him, because he didn’t think he would ever find anyone else as hauntingly beautiful as him.

Michael’s fingers brushed against the nape of his neck. “It suits you more. Your hair looks like gold.” He hesitated before pressing the lightest of kisses against his cheekbone. Lucifer closed his eyes as he leaned in, breathing in the dark smell of his cologne.

“Thank you for meeting me here.” His fingers ghosted along the line of his jaw, and Lucifer shivered. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They walked back to the front of the gas station. Michael parted from him, getting into an old red car with a tired, ragged man driving, who Lucifer was guessing was his dad. The man’s eyes lingered on Lucifer as the car peeled away.

Tomorrow. Lucifer’s head was light as he walked home. Tomorrow.


	6. Stitch

He walked quickly, hands stuffed deeply in his blazer pockets. It was a cold April this year. Michael would normally be with him on the walk home, and he carried around a beautiful pair of warm gloves – leather, with cashmere lining, so beautiful Lucifer could only think the righteous Michael had stolen them, because god knows the two of them _together_ couldn’t rustle up the money for the gloves – but he never wore them, or at least said he didn’t, and he would let Lucifer wear them instead while his own hands turned blue.

But it was alright. Better than alright really, because he could stay in Lucifer’s for around an hour each day. They had to be careful in school, both around the teachers and their classmates, but at home only Lucifer’s aunt was there, and when she wasn’t in bed (which was rare) she would chat quite happily with Michael, never questioning why he spent so much time there. Lucifer’s aunt used a cane to walk, so they could sit quite happily in front of the television or do schoolwork at the table and share the occasional kiss or touch or lingering glance without worrying about being caught, knowing the light tap of the cane would warn them of interruption. And Lucifer liked that. He liked when Michael made him a grilled cheese when he said he was hungry. He liked making Michael a macchiato when he said he was tired, whisking the milk furiously by hand. He liked it later when Michael pulled him onto his lap and he found out that the taste of coffee wasn’t rank at all, but sweet on his lips. He liked watching the way his brow furrowed when he was concentrating. He liked glancing up to find Michael watching him, chin balanced lightly in his hand, eyes calm and dreamy and adoring.

But Michael wasn’t with him today, which he didn’t like at all. He had had to stay behind for an hour, helping his physics teacher mark some papers. Michael told him to do it – recommended him to the teacher, in fact. Mr Coswald oversaw college admissions, he’d said. He told Lucifer this would put him in his good books.

Lucifer had thought about asking Michael what exactly his college admissions plan was, considering he was a senior and his graduation date was looming over them both, close enough to cast a shadow on the ceiling at night. But neither of them mentioned it, and he decided against asking.

A sharp shove on his back – before he could even take his frozen hands from his pockets he hit the ground, hard, chin scuffing the cold pavement as the air was knocked out of his lungs. He gasped once he could breathe again, turning over, hands out of his pockets. He sat up to watch two kids in another school’s uniform sprint away, shouting a word that, though he couldn’t hear it, sent a chill washing over him. They probably just saw his uniform and decided to do it. There was no reason to think that –

But it was obvious when he walked home with Michael – obvious that they were more than just friends. Sometimes Michael’s hand would brush his for a moment too long as they walked too closely together.

“Luce!”

He turned, bringing a hand up to his head dizzily. His fingers were red on blue when he pulled them away.

“Oh, god,” he murmured as Michael swam into view. Tears welled up as the pain hit him hard. His ribs were bruised, that was for sure – the pain when he breathed was proof enough of that. And Michael’s face, pale with the cold and concerned, eyes warm and soft, crowded his vision. Looking into his eyes was like looking into a warm lake, Lucifer thought as Michael’s long fingers brushed his forehead and chin.

“Come on,” Michael said lowly, helping him up carefully. “Who did this?”

“You waited for me,” Lucifer said in a wobbly voice, holding Michael’s sleeve tightly. Michael’s lips turned up a little in a smile as he rooted through his bag.

“Of course I did,” he said, and the warmth in his voice poured through Lucifer’s skin like the glow of the sun. He passed Lucifer his gloves, going to retrieve Lucifer’s bag. The gloves were on once he came back, the bag across his shoulder.

“It’s a little scuffed, but it stayed shut. And the scuffs will come out.” He touched Lucifer’s chin fondly. “And that scuff will come out too. You’ll need a few stitches on your forehead to be safe, though.”

“Stitches?” Lucifer repeated, alarmed. Michael put a hand on his waist, directing Lucifer’s hand across his shoulders. “Mike, you know – doctors cost money, you know that.”

“I don’t cost money,” Michael said mildly. “I’ll take good care of you, don’t worry.”

He wanted to point out that Michael was clever, yes, and talented, sure, and picked up skills quickly, but that didn’t make him a doctor. But saying that wouldn’t put enough money to see an actual doctor in either of their pockets, so he let himself be led to somewhere he’d never been – Michael’s house.

It was smaller than expected, and extremely clean, though some things – like the coffee table stained with rings from mugs, or the spots of rust on the tap – betrayed its age. The house was silent and still. Michael led him to his room. It was small, with a desk, a wardrobe, and a single bed.

“Where do you keep your books?” Lucifer asked. Michael lifted up the mattress wordlessly, showing him the under-bed storage, lined with books. He picked out a first aid kit before pulling it back down and gently directing Lucifer to sit there.

“Hold still for me, would you?” he asked him politely as he brushed his hair aside, his finger giving Lucifer’s cheek one gentle stroke. He brought out some thread and vials of liquid, forehead tight with concentration as he sterilised a needle.

Lucifer hissed when one of the liquids touched his skin. “Sorry, Lu,” Michael murmured, and he gritted his teeth and shook his head.

“It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine, not really. Someone had pushed him down. Maybe it was just kids playing a prank, maybe it was someone who knew he used to fight a lot. There were more reasons than he could number for why someone would do it, but even Michael’s gentle prodding and careful hands wasn’t enough to take the sting out of the cuts, or stop his eyes from feeling quite so warm. He gripped a hand at Michael’s waist, looking up at him with cloudy eyes.

“What time is it?” Lucifer asked suddenly. No matter what day it was, or how much of a good time they were having, Michael had to be at his dad’s workplace for six, no matter what. He was vague about why. And it was sort of romantic, in a way, like Cinderella having to be home for midnight on the dot.

“Quarter-past six,” Michael murmured, concentrating.

“But your dad-”

“This is more important.”

Neither of them spoke until Michael pulled away with a small smile, reaching for a mirror. Lucifer looked at himself. The stitches were small and neat, the cut on his chin cleaned and plastered. He smiled up at Michael, pulling him down for a kiss.

“Thank you,” he said, and felt Michael’s cheeks heat beneath his palm. “Incredibly done. I couldn’t ask for a better doctor.”

“I’m well-practised,” Michael replied, letting himself be pulled next to Lucifer on the bed. Lucifer touched his stitches lightly, frowning a little and wondering when on earth he’d ever hurt Michael enough in their fights to require stitches. His mind wandered to the bruises and cuts he sometimes saw on Michael, and the time he’d caught a glimpse of Michael’s bare chest when he was taking off his jumper; littered with bruises, great purple welts, and Michael had seen him staring and pulled his shirt down silently.

And then Michael put a hand on his cheek, eyes soft and fond, and moved closer to kiss him.

They didn’t move with urgency, like they did when they managed to steal a few minutes towards the end of lunch break in school, or when the walk home took longer than expected, leaving them with less time in Lucifer’s house. They moved instead with slow, gentle touches, Michael’s hand gentle on his cheek, his own hand loosely fisted in his hair. For a few minutes, it felt for all the world like a slow and golden Sunday afternoon – no responsibilities, no worries about being caught, nothing in the world except each other, time melting between them and slipping away.

The walls vibrated as the front door slammed shut, and Michael jumped away from him like it had been a gunshot.

“Fuck,” Michael whispered. Lucifer looked at the bedroom door – it was shut, thankfully, but there was no lock.

He jumped up, and Lucifer watched him hazily before he grabbed his wrist, dragging him off the bed too.

He flung open the wardrobe door. “Get in,” he said urgently, and if it wasn’t for the unmistakable fear in his voice Lucifer would have been too surprised to move. Before he shut the door, Michael kissed him again, small and sweet and painfully scared.

“Don’t come out,” Michael whispered as heavy footsteps made their way down the hallway. “No matter what.”

Lucifer nodded, and Michael passed him the first aid box with the vials of liquid, needle, and thread messily shoved inside before shutting the door.

Lucifer could hear the creak of the bedroom door, and the sigh of the bed as Michael sat down. He swallowed. He could only see through the thin line between the doors – too thin for him to make out anything except the color of the bedsheets, the black of Michael’s hair, the terrified white of his face.

“Did you have a good day?” he heard him ask, his tone artificially bright.

“Do you know how much battery powered refrigerators cost?”

Lucifer blinked. Michael was silent. He wished he could see his expression. He wished he could see Michael’s dad, and try and figure out why Michael seemed so deathly afraid.

“Where were you?”

“I’m sorry. I got held up in school,” and Michael’s voice, usually so calm and clear, is small.

A heavy silence. And then the footsteps moved away.

“Better start saving up for that refrigerator,” was the only reply before the door slammed shut.

There was a pause. Lucifer hesitated, wondering whether he should come out or not. He started pushing against the door tentatively, and then jumped when Michael opened it, his smile and his eyes too bright.

“Mi-” he stopped as Michael put a finger to his lips.

“Michael,” he whispered, worry growing heavily in his stomach. “Michael, are you-”

“I’m fine.” He checked his stitches, which to Lucifer felt a touch obscene given the circumstances. “Are you?”

“Yeah.”

Michael smiled, and leaned forward to kiss him softly, pulling away when he didn’t kiss back.

“Michael,” he whispered more urgently as he squeezed Lucifer’s hand before crossing the room, pushing up the window. “Your dad-”

“It’s fine, Luce. But you should probably leave before he comes back.”

Lucifer swallowed hard, his throat dry. But he nodded, clambering out gingerly with Michael’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady.

“You alright?”

Again, given the circumstances, this felt somewhat obscene to Lucifer. His stitches were barely a dull throb now. But he knew he really cared, and really meant it, so he nodded, his legs on the ground beneath him. “This is pretty much the same window as my one,” he told him once he was outside, his torso still ducked under the window in the room. Michael tried to grin – something, probably the fear still rolling off him in waves, didn’t let it reach his eyes.

“Always good to know,” he whispered. And though he didn’t lean forward to kiss him Lucifer knew he wanted to, he just wasn’t sure whether Lucifer would want to be kissed – and though Lucifer had a ball of worry pressing on his stomach and grabbing at his heart and throat, he leaned forward to kiss him anyway. An awkward, strained kiss as neither of them said what they thought the other was thinking.

“I love you,” Lucifer whispered against his lips, and he heard the catch in his breath though this wasn’t the first time he’d told him.

“I love you too.” His hand was heavy on the nape of his neck. It trailed across his jawline as Michael moved away, watching him not without a hint of sadness. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

Lucifer blew him a kiss, sensing that some light-heartedness would be appreciated, and Michael pretended to catch it, smiling. His own smile dropped the moment he turned, heading to his house with his brain going a thousand miles an hour and dread clouding every step.


End file.
